The clash of swords rang through the chamber as Kurundani the Bloodsworn watched the two pairs of aspirants duel to and fro through the wide training hall.  His disdain for the duelling pair was evident upon his face as he turned to Lufanwani behind him and commented that only four aspirants remain where once the children of kings fought for the right to be the swords and shields of Her Dark Lady.  Lufanwani was more pragmatic commenting that all things pass and that these were the strongest now that Her Dark Lady was no more and the Pharaoh was beyond their reach now. However their hope was not dead for they had faith in the one that remains, believing that they will rebuild the Order in a new image and their power would grow again.  As if simply waiting for those words one of the aspirants sword flashed past his opponents guard and the noise in the hall quietened as the ring of a single pair of swords was accompanied by a few muted coughs and then silence. Kurundani queried the loyalty of the Fangs within the new order, to which Lufanwani paused as he watched the remaining pair of aspirants in a frantic exchange of blows resulting in the shortest of the pair collapsing to the ground his right arm gone and the left half of his skull a shattered mess.  Both victors dragged the corpses of their defeated opponent to the side of the hall to rest with several score other dead all garbed in similar black and gold tabards with shields and blades rested on their chests. With an indrawn breath they both walked to the centre of the hall, saluted one another, and began circling carefully. “They will fall into line once structure and order is restored”. Both men fell silent as they watched the contest that had been underway for the best part of a week come to its inevitable conclusion.  As they watched neither noticed a single figure steal from the shadows behind them and sprint away.

The scarred man was dismissive as he picked his nails with his knife, his contempt for what he saw as working under the rule of the weak was written all over his face.  He openly declared that he did not believe the vision of some dusty old priests and a barely trained boy. He carefully considered the man before him as he declared that it was time to look after his own interests instead of just doing an honourable, he spat the word, man’s dirty work.  The figure opposite him queried why come to him. The scarred man replied “You have power, more than some people suspect I’d say, and you’ve shown a”, he paused, “practicality in accepting the allegiance of parties seeking to distance themselves from previous loyalties”. The figure nodded and agreed, stating that he could always use people of his talents, and that an opportunity would present itself at the Darkmoot.  The instructions were clear yet unspoken, should the scarred man wish to change loyalties then he was expected to take the opportunity.

Lufanwani smiled at the priest standing before him while carefully avoiding staring at the Uruk guards shuffling and grunting to either side.  His own guards stood at cold blooded attention their only movement the flickering of tongues. The priest asked if there was an accord, the flames tattooed on the side of his face moving with the action of his jaw.  Lufanwani replied positively, “the Halls of Suhtek will be no more and the Circle Aflame will become the pre-eminent wielders of the evil sphere upon this land. Our forces complement each other well as we have discussed.  We shall begin moving our people after the Darkmoot concludes”.

Lufanwani and Kurundani walked side by side down the corridor watching as the nation's treasures were packed ready for travel.  Neither cared about the dark glances cast their way by the knifemen and assassins of the Fangs. With the children of Suhtek guarding them the miserable rabble would fall in line.  The fate of their people rested with the young squire who would become the first knight of the new order. For now though they had a Darkmoot to attend and their people must begin the move to their new lands.

Bertrand du Guesclin tossed fitfully.  The priests were gone to something called the Darkmoot and he awaited their return, he’d be one of the last to leave for their new home.  He understood the need to merge their forces with the Circle. With the loss of the Knights and devastation of his own ascension they were in a position of extreme weakness or so the priests told him.  It wasn’t thoughts of the future that kept him awake however. While he gloried in his victory he was still troubled by the destruction of every single one of his training companions. Calming himself he lay on his back saying each name of the his fallen brothers to himself in the dark remembering one specific blow or parry from each fight in honour of their memory.  Then his eyes flashed open and he saw a masked face above him and felt a hot flash of pain across his throat and then a warmth spreading across his chest. “Sleep tight Sir Bertrand” laughed the assassin as the life of the young man drained to the floor.